


Heat-Up Food And Science Blankets

by chasing_the_sterek



Category: Deadpool - All Media Types, Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: BAMF Deadpool, BAMF Peter Parker, Breaking and Entering, Deadpool Thought Boxes, Deadpool being Deadpool, Fluff, Identity Reveal, M/M, No Idea, Pre-Relationship, Science Blankets, Why Did I Write This?, does it count as that if deadpool just works it out, i guess so??? idk, idk what her actual name is, if being BAMF counts as being hard to scare by breaking into their house, which probably isn't really the definition they were gunning for, why isn't that a tag
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-06
Updated: 2016-05-06
Packaged: 2018-06-06 20:15:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,913
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6768451
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chasing_the_sterek/pseuds/chasing_the_sterek
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Peter comes home after a long day and finds a certain Merc With A Mouth in his apartment.</p><p>Joy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Heat-Up Food And Science Blankets

**Author's Note:**

> I have no idea if this is good or not.
> 
> Don't be mean ;A;
> 
> Inspired by the prompt "I don't know how you got into my house, but don't just stand there, help me with my groceries" which just screams spideypool tbh

When Peter steps, finally, into the warm air of his apartment at what's got to be nearly two o'clock in the morning, one of the last things he expects to see is a dark silhouette next to his window and the silver glint of a knife in the moonlight as the man twirls it between his fingers with a lightning-quick precision.

"Welcome home," Deadpool says silkily. _"Spidey."_

Peter sighs heavily, puts all fifteen million of his shopping bags down, and turns around to close the door. "Yeah, yeah, hello to you, too, asshole."

Deadpool pauses for a moment, and then pouts, coming out of the shadows and flicking on a light to combat the sudden darkness that Peter closing the door and blocking off the warm orange glow from the hallway has caused. The doorway Peter's standing in remains in shadow, though, which seems to irritate Deadpool to no end. The red-and-black clad antihero visibly squints into the darkness, then shakes his head minutely and gives up trying to see Peter.

"You were supposed to be surprised I found out your secret identity," Deadpool whines instead of mentioning Peter's shady doorway-dwelling. "You were supposed to screech and demand how I knew or make up hilarious excuses I can tease you about later. You weren't supposed to do the equivalent of shrugging and going _meh."_

Peter hums. "It was gonna happen eventually. Honestly, I'm surprised it didn't happen sooner; you're a mercenary, man, I don't know if you noticed. I'm 100% positive that you have contacts that'll churn out my name as soon as you push a bit. Like, uh, that Weasel guy you talk about sometimes? He seems like a bit of a computer whiz, he could probably do it."

"You're not even surprised at _all?_ Not scared or anything about the fact that I'm in your house and greeted your glorious homecoming with a _knife?"_

Peter rubs the bridge of his nose, pushing up his glasses with one finger so he can get to the spot better, and sighs. "Dude, I don't know how you got into my apartment, but don't just stand there, help me with my shopping."

He grabs the first two and walks into the light, past a suddenly and inexplicably frozen Deadpool, and into his little kitchen. He dumps the bags unceremoniously on the counter and moves back to the hallway to get another two.

"C'mon, you irritant, _move,"_ he says irritably when Deadpool still hasn't budged an inch. "Even if you're not going to help (which, honestly, is just plain _rude),_ go stand by the wall or something. You're in the way."

Deadpool breaks out of whatever weird line of thought he was in and pads softly after Peter like an obedient puppy.

"Why do you even _need_ my help? There are, like, three bags left!" The merc yells suddenly, making the brunet jump a little as he guns for his third trip to the kitchen.

Peter rolls his eyes. "I'm asking you to help because it's etiquette for a guest, rude and unnecessarily overdramatic entrance or no rude and unnecessarily overdramatic entrance, and you didn't seem to get the damn memo."

"Ooohhhhh, Spidey got the jokes," Deadpool sing-songs childishly, staggering exaggeratedly past Peter with the last three bags. As Peter watches, Deadpool pretends that they're weighing him down enough to pin him to the ground, and then just lays there, groaning like a dying man.

"Spidey has a baseball bat in his closet and isn't afraid to use it on people who break into his house," Peter sing-songs back, plucking two of the bags from Deadpool's 'corspe' without batting an eyelid.

The merc huffs in mild irritation, then seems to register the statement and starts laughing as he gets up from the floor. "Kid, you know better than anyone else that a baseball bat can't do anything to me. I have a healing factor even your mom can't believe."

Peter blinks a little, hands stilling for a fraction of a second in their duty of unpacking one of the bags.

He starts unpacking again quickly, hoping that the mercenary didn't notice.

Deadpool notices.

"Oh, damn," Deadpool says from behind him. "Hey, man, I'm sorry -"

"Nah, she'd have believed it," Peter corrects, trying to make his voice rise over Deadpool's endless apologies without shouting. There's a rustle as Deadpool dumps the last bag on the counter. "She'd just not be interested in looking at it in the way you implied."

"I -"

"She was a scientist, like my Dad, y'know? She wouldn't dissect you or anything, just poke you a little and ask you questions at a million miles an hour." Peter squints a little in Wade's direction, trying to figure out if he's listening beneath all the apologies and flailing. "She'd have loved you. Your sense of humour would have been right up her alley. Might've even managed to give you a run for your money."

"She _what!?"_ Deadpool half-shrieks, freezing for a second at the words _she'd have loved you._ "She can't lo-"

"I'm pretty sure she'd have loved you to pieces," Peter says. "I know Aunt May will, anyway."

"But -"

"But nothing," Peter says decisively, waving a dismissive hand. "Both of them would love you if you met them. There's a reason they were friends beyond the fact that they had to be."

Deadpool blinks at the last sentence, gives into the way the conversation is headed and sits down on one of the barstools at the island in Peter's kitchen. The antihero swings back and forth absently, fiddling with the lever for the hydraulics. "How did they have to be?"

"Uncle Ben and Dad were brothers." Peter answers. "So Aunt May and Mom had to find things to talk about while their husbands spent time together. Mom was a scientist - a biologist, I think, like Dad. They met at work - and Aunt May was a nurse, so they had that in common, and somehow Aunt May got Mom drunk once and taught her all the card games she knew, so suddenly they could play rummy and backgammon to keep their hands busy as they talked about everything else."

He's milling around the kitchen as he talks, putting things in the fridge and other things in the cupboard without really needing to look. Upon multiple occasions he gets lazy and just webs open a cupboard or whatever, and on every single one of those occasions Deadpool applauds without fail.

Peter recounts the second-hand story of the time his Mom had a breakdown because she was stuck on part of her work and couldn't make it to her and Aunt May's scheduled girl's night. Aunt May had bullied where his Mom's address was out of his Dad and then marched there with a backpack containing three bottles of vodka and rum and a various assortment of glasses, ranging from shots to huge three-quarter-litre ones. In short, they'd got drunk together, somehow solved the problem (and a ton others) while inebriated, and passed out. His Mom had woken up spread-eagled on her work table, face smooshed into some paper containing the words "this is from drunk you LOL have a good hangover asshole", and Aunt May had woken up lying on the floor, half-in a loop of rope that went over the light and then down and around her waist.

Deadpool's gone past loud laughter and is well into silent wheezing by the end of it. Peter smiles from where he's leaning casually back against the counter - it's rare he gets to tell that story, and even rarer that people don't keep interrupting him with piteous looks or sad statements of "I'm sorry for your loss" even though by now that sentence has lost all meaning and just floats uselessly in one ear, muddles around his brain for a little bit, then drifts out of the other.

"Your Mom and your Aunt were legends," Deadpool gasps once he's pulled himself together. "S'a shame they're gone; I bet they'd have a helluva lot to say about you being Spiderman."

"Aunt May's still alive," Peter corrects, feeling the surprise cross his features. Mind you, in retrospect, he _had_ inadvertently made it sound like she was gone, so. . . "Still kicking ass as a nurse."

"What did she say?"

"About Spiderman?" Peter clarifies, and then shuffles more than a little awkwardly when Deadpool nods. "Uh. . ."

"Oh my god. No way."

". . . Way."  
_  
"Oh my god._ You haven't told her. Oh, man. Damn, I don't pity you at _all."_

"I don't want her to worry," Peter says defensively.

Deadpool just snorts. "She'd worry, sure. I mean, _I_ worry. I see on the news that you and Rhino are fighting and I worry. I hear that someone saw Spiderman limping away bleeding from a fight and I worry."

Peter opens his mouth to say something, but Deadpool steamrollers right over it.

"But if someone worries, that means they care. If your Aunt didn't worry that you were Spiderman, she wouldn't be a good person. You ever hear the saying about true friendship not just being who said that they'll be there for you, but about who meant it? Something along those lines, anyw-"  
_  
"Friendship isn't about who you've known for the longest. It's about who walked into your life, said **"I'm here for you."** and proved it,"_ Peter recites. He doesn't know who the quote is from, so he leaves it there, raising an eyebrow at Deadpool in challenge.

"Yeah, that," Deadpool says, giving him a little look that screams _I suspected it before but now I know for certain that you're a nerd,_ waving a hand. "People worry, Peter; it's a rule of life. But people accept, too. Parents do it all the time, if you just stop and think about it. They worry about their kids going on their first sleepover, or whatever, but they accept that they're growing up and becoming more independent and they accept that they can't coddle them forever."

Peter finds himself lost for words, staring at the merc. Deadpool seems to be a little lost in his words, his hands rising to draw soft shapes in the air as he speaks.

"Your Aunt May deserves to know so she _can_ worry, and so that she can accept that you're Spiderman and start helping you out from time to time. She can love you for who you fully are, spandex-covered ass and all. Don't waste the time you've got left with her lying. Savour her while she's there."

Peter blinks. Decides not to mention the bit about savouring it while it's there. "Deadpool, she's nearly _sixty._ She can't fight my battles for me when I'm sick."

"I didn't say she would," Deadpool agrees, snorting at the notion. "In fact, if an old but admittedly badass-sounding lady takes over as Spiderman, I'm taking a picture, selling it to the Daily Bugle, and breaking into your house again just to laugh in your face."

Peter waits. Then, when no answers seem to be forthcoming: "So?"

"You mean what _can_ she do?" Deadpool clarifies.

Peter nods softly.

"She can help patch you up after fights. She can learn how fast your healing factor works so she stops worrying about all the wounds she watches you get on the news that would seriously injure someone normal but actually heal in ten minutes because you're Spiderman on the side. She can start leaving windows half-unlocked so you can crash on the sofa if it's closer than your apartment. She can keep extra suits for you and sew up gashes and cover for you at work or whatever if you need it."

"You seems very sure she's going to take it well and not try to disown me for not telling her," Peter notes mildly.

"Your Aunt sounds like a reasonable person. I'm assuming she'll take it better than you think."

"Because you know her so well after just one story from her past and me worrying over telling her," Peter answers, scoffing a little under his breath as he fishes around in a newly filled cupboard for a box of instant noodles or something quick. He'd forgotten to buy any more noodles, which he was in the mood for, instead choosing at the time to fill his cart with packets of instant soup and crisps and chocolate bars.

"Not exactly," Deadpool says, "but close. I'm not biased from angsting over it for so long like you are. I'm not scared of the fallout, because I'm an asshole third party and I only feel the aftershocks."

Peter turns around to stare at him for a long time.

After half a minute Deadpool starts to look uncomfortable, and after a full minute he's fidgeting. "Uh, hello? Earth to Spidey? Peter? You still in there?"

Peter feels empty, hollow, like everything he's ever believed has been sucked out of wherever it was and he's just walked into an empty room he'd thought was full and been hit smack in the face with big fat nothing.

Because Deadpool's right: his Aunt would probably be awesome about the whole thing. She'd worry, just like he said, but she'd leave her window completely unlocked (screw the fact that it nearly gave Peter a heart attack just thinking about it) and bring Peter food all the time to give him "extra nutrition" or whatever and laugh at him because he basically took professional selfies of himself and sold them to a company who hated him.

"Yeah, still here," Peter replies monotonously, successfully finding and then yanking out a box of instant noodles absently. They're out of date by three weeks when he robotically checks the label, but in all honesty Peter's had worse so he just shrugs and starts to peel off the lid, flicking on the kettle with his big toe without really thinking.

"Is that all you have to eat?" Deadpool asks, obviously wondering aloud. "Heat-up quick meals?"

Peter shrugs. "Basically, yeah."

"That's not good for you, is it? It can't be." He pauses, apparently listening to the boxes. "White says it's not, and Yellow says that as much as he wishes it was he's inclined to agree with White."

"Probably not healthy, no," Peter agrees, nodding, and leans over to pick up the kettle, pulling it free of the base a second before it beeps to say it's done. Advantage of heightened senses: you get to know things are finished/boiled before they themselves do.

"Then why do you eat it?"

"Because it's all I can afford, Deadpool," Peter says bluntly, feeling the way the older man assesses how much he looks at the packet's instructions in an effort to find out how often he eats this kind of thing and trying not to fidget under the scrutiny. "I'm twenty-three, and definitely not the richest guy in the world. My boss is an indignant asshole who cuts pay on anyone who dares speak against him, and I somehow do that a lot, so."

He shrugs like it's nothing, hoping for once that the anger he can see rising in Deadpool is directed towards him and not Jameson.

"How much d'you get paid?"

"None of your business." Peter answers flatly. "I can't afford proper food, just quick stuff? Boo hoo. Poor me. People have it worse. _I've_ had it worse."

The anger filling the room goes up multiple notches. "What?"

Peter winces, but doesn't back down. Deadpool will just find another way to find out; he might as well spill the beans now.

"Y'know the minimum wage?"

"Yes." is the clipped reply. "Lived on it. It's hard, no doubt especially if you're Spiderman on the side."

"Well, let's just say that the minimum wage is luxurious compared to what my boss tried to give me."

All of the anger just. . . freezes. Peter's not sure how to explain it, or even if he fully understands himself, but Deadpool's white-hot anger suddenly freezes and turns into icy cold rage. At this rate, Jameson is going to be found and killed in fifteen minutes, and then Peter won't have a job and life will suck.

"Who's your boss, Spidey?" Deadpool hisses, deadly quiet.

"I'm not telling you that."

"Yo, who's his boss?" Deadpool asks, apparently to his boxes.

Peter sneakily webs Deadpool's feet together while the merc is distracted with arguing with his boxes (just in case), then puts his hand on his arm to stop him from rising.

"Stop it. I need that job."

"You need to be paid at least the minimum wage," Deadpool growls.

"I _am._ I said it was fine, I could deal, but my coworkers decided to take matters into their own hands and everyone - literally, every single person in the entire building but Jameson - went on strike during the busiest week the Bugle has. Jameson threatened to cut everyone's pay, then fire us for good, but suddenly seemed to realise that that would mean losing his entire workforce and he ended up just giving in and paying me the correct amount just to get everyone back."

Deadpool's eyes are suddenly and inexplicably bright with amusement, the humour visible even through the mask, and there's a massive grin on his lips.

"What?" Peter says, because if he doesn't ask the unknown is going to niggle at him and it'll be irritating.

"The Daily Bugle, huh, Spides?"

Peter freezes.

His expression must be hilarious (similar a deer in the headlights', no doubt), because Deadpool laughs so hard he falls right off of his stool and onto the floor.

"Shut it, Wilson," Peter grumbles as Deadpool starts to gasp for air from where he's squirming on the floor.

"It's so _stupid,"_ the battle-hardened mercenary manages between giggles. "You were all _I'm not telling you who my boss is, Deadpool_ and suddenly BAM you just - you just -"

"Mhm," Peter says noncommittally, grabbing a spoon from out of his cutlery drawer and starting to eat his dinner as he waits for Deadpool to finish laughing his ass off.

It takes another fifteen minutes. Deadpool keeps starting to get back to normal before looking up at Peter or visibly remembering the word-vomit and laughing himself into a relapse.

"You done?" Peter says mildly, when Deadpool's pushing the record time for not relapsing without snorting more than three times.

"Think so," Deadpool gasps out, wiping his eyes and heaving himself into a standing position. Peter sighs when Deadpool squashes a loaf of bread he'd forgotten to put away as he uses the counter as support.

"Cool." Peter hums. "I'd hate you to be useless forever just because I accidentally told you where I work."

"And your name," Deadpool adds.

Peter frowns. "I didn't tell you my name. You already knew it."

"Oh, _yeah,"_ Deadpool goes, dragging out the vowels in the latter word. "Mercenary magic."

Peter huffs, his frown melting away even as he tries not to show amusement. Luckily Deadpool doesn't seem to notice.

"Oh!" The red-and-black antihero half-shouts brightly, his tone clearly showing that he's just thought of or remembered whatever it is he's going to say. "Speaking of mercenary magic, want a raise?"

Peter scowls. "No."

Deadpool pouts. "Aw, c'mon. Let's say that they're, um, completely unrelated?"

"You don't sound so sure," Peter points out helpfully. "And no. I'm not stupid, Deadpool. I know how you'll get me a raise."

"Of course you're not stupid, Petie-Pie," Deadpool grins. "You're very obviously a complete nerd -"

"Hey!" Peter complains, but Deadpool just talks right over him.

"But who says there's only one way to get you a raise?"

Peter rolls his eyes. "I don't want your blood money, Wade -"

There's a sudden explosive shriek of delight that has Peter shooting instinctively and jumping onto the ceiling (huddling against it for protection, not cowering), before he can even fully register the high-pitched noise.

"The fuck?" He says simply, and wiggles a finger in his ear to try and clear the residing echoes of the noise.

"My thoughts exactly," Deadpool says from below him, and Peter looks up (down?) to see the mercenary pulling sticky webbing off of his chest so he can pull himself away from the wall he's been inexplicably stuck against.

"Um," the younger man says hesitantly, half-smiling awkwardly and rubbing his neck when Deadpool looks up at him (after peering around the kitchen for a second trying to find him). "Sorry?"

"Huh," Deadpool says instead of _it's okay._ "I thought the sticky fingers were a part of your costume."

Peter drops from the ceiling and dusts his pants off. "Why the hell would you think that?"

Deadpool shrugs. "Because spandex is too thick to let you use your sticky-finger powers? I dunno. Don't ask me difficult questions."

Peter rolls his eyes, but lets it go. "What was that damn noise? Was it you?"

"It was me," Deadpool confirms, grin returning full-force. (To be honest, Peter's kind of scared. Who the hell knows what this moron's going to do?)

"Why?" Peter asks suspiciously, eyes narrowed and head tilted to one side in reluctant curiosity.

"You called me Wade," Deadpool beams, visibly struggling to suppress a squeal that would probably be creepily similar to the one that weird girl scout did when Albert, Aunt May's neighbour, bought all of her cookies that one time and she cried. (The whole street heard her scream of joy. It was weird.)

Peter rolls his eyes. "Right. Well, I'm tired, Wade, so either you can crash on the couch overnight and deal with the ensuing back pains in the morning or you can leave."

"You're not sharing your bed with me?" Deadpool pouts.

"No."

"But I'm your esteemed and welcome guest."

"You broke into my apartment, man," Peter points out with one raised eyebrow. "You don't get the luxury of a bed."

"You have a double," Deadpool says. "I saw it when I came in your window."

"And therein lies the problem," Peter agrees, ignoring Deadpool's put-upon sigh as he goes to get some blankets.

He winces when he sees the inside of the closet: it's got one or two blankets, yes, but all of his plain-coloured ones are apparently in the wash because he just has one with little Erlenmeyer flasks with a neon green liquid in them floating next to some of the elements that make up stainless steel - chromium, nickel, molybdenum, silicon, aluminum, iron, and carbon, to name a few - and one with little Spiderman and Deadpool faces on it. It's obviously imperative that Wade never sees the latter, so Peter yanks the massive king-sized Science Blanket out and drags it over to dump unceremoniously on the sofa.

"You're such a nerd," Wade says as soon as he catches a glimpse of the pattern, but he accepts it anyway and settles down for a nap or whatever he intends to do.

"Yeah, yeah, whatever," Peter yawns, waving a flippant hand. "Don't kill my boss, don't kill me, and don't you dare go snooping around in my room."

A masked head pops out of the blanket burrito. "Why? Are you hiding things in there?"

"No." Peter says. Then: "Yes. Maybe. I don't know. Depends on what you count as things to hide."

"Girls," Wade replies immediately. "And secret Spiderman suits which look a bit too much like someone else's suit. Or massive, hand-baked cakes you think are girly. Or maid costumes. Because I have one or two of those and, honestly, if I shamed wearing dresses I'd be a total hypocrite -"  
_  
"Goodnight, Wade."_

**Author's Note:**

> This is going to stay a oneshot, guys.
> 
> No more chapters.
> 
> No.
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> Also next week (9th of May to the 14th) is my mock week so I will definitely not be updating


End file.
